Long Journey
by Cowardly Octopus
Summary: A past life is one that many religions believe in. Some say a human can pass through the world of the living twice. Some also speak of soulmates. Ones who were destined since the beginning of creation to be together; no matter how many times they die. A person who dreams of a familiar place could also experience their past life. Even if kills them.


Pain. Heartbreak. Betrayal.

Birth.

He remembers them as clearly as the broken blue sky. He tells himself that the sky is blue, that there are no other colors to be seen beneath white puffs of smoke. No fractures in the glass. At night, when the sky isn't a reminiscing sea of blue, his chest aches and bleeds. He cries out at the horrible pain, how it burns into his soul and still leaves him alive. It eats at his mind, plays tricks like a child.

Then, when the pain is over; he dreams of ornate castles of old. The fields of misery and breathtaking beauty with winds sweeping in low arches. How it calls out to him, pulling him on a golden thread like a fragile wind-up puppet. He understands that it was once real, long ago. Scrolls dictate that it was a century of rulers, bishops, and priests who speak for whatever Maker that lies up in those great skies of sickly blue.

A disembodied voice calls to him from somewhere beyond the shadows of this hell like dream. A modulated voice that made him feel unbearably tired. It was relaxing. Like small drops of rain that lulled him off to sleep when he was much younger. He couldn't seem to find where the sound came from, it was like it didn't exist at all. Wandering back and forth, there were no signs of life; only emptiness. It made him want to cry. His tears filled the room. The only sound he could hear was his own sobbing, but it didn't came from him.

He found himself on the floor, unable to feel his arms and legs. A glinting dagger of red stuck out of his gaping chest, his hand clasped around the hilt, as if trying to get ahold of something, anything to keep him feeling real. To feel alive.

"Tsuna." That same voice called out, but it sounded weak and frail, as if trying to push back the cold tears that crystalized as soon as it dropped. A figure sat down next to his body, placing gentle hands on his chest and behind his neck. To let him know that he was there.

The pain was killing him slowly. Digging its way into the crevice of his chest, getting closer to his pounding heart. He sucked in sharp intakes of breath, his hand shooting up at the burning sea of red above him, reaching for anything. He wheezed and gasped, his throat clogged up. There was nothing he could do. The figure shushed him, afraid of grabbing onto him and hurting him even more.

"I love you, Tsuna." The voice whispered out, placing a light kiss on his forehead. Tsuna could feel himself fading in and out. He could vaguely point out a curly sideburn or two bouncing up and down. It felt familiar. He could hear himself letting out a gasp or two, his hand letting go of the hilt that left an impression on his hand.

"Don't forget about me."

* * *

Tsuna slowly wakes up, clutching at his shirt where his heart is. His face felt numb on one side, his hair sticking to his forehead and beads of sweat dripping down onto his shirt. He looked around at his surroundings, pointing out the many stacks of books from school that piled up on his desk. The white strewn papers that were marked down with a red pen. A black fedora placed neatly on the arm of the desk chair, topped with a yellow linen cloth wrapped around it. For him, the hat felt out of place in his life, but he knew it so well. Who it belonged to and how it fit perfectly on their neatly, spiked up hair.

The door creaked open, a tall man sweeping into the room with grace and pride, staring at Tsuna with fixed clouded eyes. "Another nightmare, I presume?" He spoke haughtily, gliding over to the desk and placing the hat upon his head, pulling the chair over to the side of the bed and taking a seat. A glass of orange juice was placed on the nightstand, a droplet or two caressing the glass.

Tsuna felt like screaming. Those dreams that he's had since he was a child of light. Those visions of blood and salt that carried him into the night on a bed of broken glass. He knew. It wasn't no mere dream. No, he could see the battered faces of those he called his own. The figure that saved his life. The one who clung onto him and trusted him, even as he pulled out a curved dagger to kill him.

He took his own life.

The young teen wept with hot tears, reaching over with shaking hands and clinging onto the vest of the Hitman, sobbing into his once straightened shirt.

"I didn't forget you."


End file.
